Bravery
by Shakaka
Summary: He'd been loved, he'd been used, he'd been abused, and he'd been hated, but through it all, he'd held on. His name was simple, but his courage was strong. Bravery like this came at a price, and it woke him to a hellish world of war.


**Disclaimer:** I am not Stephen Spielberg (director of _War Horse_) and so therefore I do not own his works. What I add into the story is mine (for example, the different characters, the plot, etc.) but the original themes, ideas, plot, characters, etc. are solely the works of this awesome, famous person and his associates.

**Author's Note:** Hey everyone! This is just a sneaky little one-shot in which the scene where Joey was running through 'no-man's land' away from the Germans was inspired. So, enjoy!

* * *

><p><strong>Bravery<strong>

_Definition:_ courageous behaviour or character

* * *

><p>The sky was dark, from the dust or the night no one could be sure, and a faint whitish luminance broke through the fog suffocating the ground. The ground itself was hard brown clay, but in places of destruction it was soft and disturbed, and swamps filled in the holey earth with black gunk that winked repulsively beneath the moonlight. Hoary-white flashes of sharpened razor wire glinted as the light shifted, and throughout this dead land the screams of explosions rang shrill, deep and profound, like death themselves.<p>

It was the perfect depiction of war, this land, the perfect depiction of death and carnage and blood and savage revenge. Bodies lay scattered across the troubled earth – some limbless, others blackened to near indecision – and red pools watered the cracked facade, with bayoneted rifles strewn limply. There was no life here, no birds, no mice, not even _worms. _The trees were dead – thin, bare and leafless, and standing like white phantoms in the gloom – for there was nothing.

Nothing but destruction.

And through it all, the callous cries of men rang out. Fighting men; fighting for their country, their freedom and their rights to land. It was a grim business, this war, and many would never make it home to see what their fighting had done.

Yet some would, and they would be honoured. Honoured and nurtured and hailed as kings.

For above everything else, bravery cost the most.

And as the cloudy sky parted ever-so-slightly, the clearness of a starry night shone down across the war-torn earth. It was a beautiful black velvetiness covering the wide expanse of the heavens, and dotted here and there with silvery little winks. The moon rose up high above the mist, glowing in all its full white glory, and gazing down upon the shattered land with a purity that made the waiting soldiers in their trenches weep with awe. It glowed upon the faces turned toward it, a soft glow that shadowed the dirt and blood and grime covering their young skin. Many of these men were teenagers, barely twenty-five, and they all held varying degrees of the same emotion, the same dread and anticipation, the same fear and terror and hope.

But no one spoke. Not even when the cries of the wounded on their deathbeds voiced themselves to the heavens, not even when the tumultuous booms of enemy bombs rained down rubble and stone onto their thick green helmets.

They feared each other, these fighters. They feared their foreign enemies as terrorists, yet did not realise they were all of the same blood and flesh and life. They fired away endless amounts of copper bullets, pierced rivalry skin, killed rivalry life, and yet they did not recognise each other as the animalistic killers they had become. Through the thirst for survival, power and triumph, they had lost all traces of the humanness that their wives and children still held.

For above everything else, bravery cost the most.

And it was through this land, through this dead, barren, broken land, that the lanky silhouette of a fleeing animal ran. He was nothing much but a blurred figure through the darkness, casting shadows around and upon himself as he moved through the mist, leaping holes and dodging trees. He was a fast creature: four-legged, long-necked and hairy-hided. He was powerful, young, and bold. He moved with a deep, hollow booming through the earth, as if demanding every life form to recognise the strength of his long legs. Something soft and light danced atop his neck, a sea of black locks that wavered and shuddered in the wind breezing through his coat. His long face flared out gasping-wide nostrils, his dark brown eyes flashed through fear and terror and dismay, and his neck tensed and frothed sweat as it rocked with the synchronised strokes of his legs. The hair feathering his hooves danced, shivering and shaking as his feet struck the hard ground and jolted firm bolts up through his limbs.

Missiles landed merely metres away as he streaked like a brown ghost through the land. Explosions of mud, blood and timber puffed up into the air to shield the stars from view, and the smog and dust became so thick it was impossible to see through. A ghostly white haze that covered everything and revealed nothing.

The moon shone down weakly upon the animal's path, lighting the crusted mud over his legs and the splattered muck across his face. Four faint white socks and a white diamond blaze ghosted out from beneath the grungy covering, and chunky knots tangled in his black mane. His long tail flared out in brittle strands behind his legs, and the brown coat over his body sprinkled small flakes of filth as the layering mud grated together.

A saddle sat upon his back, a thin brown military load, the soft leather damaged by wind and water. The girth on his underside rubbed and chafed at tender skin, but the saddle blanket somewhat softened the seat's roughness. A thick-banded leather bridle enclosed his face, running thick leather reins up from the metal bit in his mouth to behind his wither, bumping and jerking with his swift flight.

But none of this, not even the steel, mud-encrusted shoes on the undersides of his hooves, slowed his hasty flight.

A flight so dangerous in a land like this, for traps lay inconspicuously clad throughout the territory. Not even the soft winking of razor wire alerted the animal to their whereabouts.

Spikes tore through the hardened flesh over his chest with a jagged, stabbing pain that pricked and twinged as he ran. He ploughed through the fence of speared wire in a frenzy, grunting and straining as the pair of pickets attached split deep from the ground and tumbled in a bouncing whirl behind his legs, dragging the wire deep into his skin.

His flight was blind, his intelligence scattered. He was hopeless, and so he did not see the second fence before him. He tore through.

Another fence – more pain, more spikes, more weight – but he never slowed. The spikes dug deeper, warm red blood dripped thickly down his chest, the pain surged and softened every time he moved, and yet still he ran. As the four wooden cross-pickets danced in an ungraceful jerking tumble, the high-pitched scream of a missile deafened his ears and he lurched instinctively to the side, startled.

His hooves struck soft ground, and he leaped high into the air, dragging wire, wood, and mud through the water and stumbling across the bank on the other side. He tripped and lurched forward –

And a picket wrapped itself around another wire fence. He swung about violently, the lines closing tight over his body and yanking his momentum back. The other three pickets anchored themselves in the dirt and tangled among wooden posts and trees, bringing him to his knees as he stumbled. The spikes dug harshly into his body and he whinnied loudly, snarling and thrashing in terror. Bombs rained debris down onto his back, cool wind ruffled the sweaty hair of his coat, and he gnawed at the metal bit in his mouth. Yanking against the razors, he ignored every sting, every tear, and every protesting muscle as pain shot like a million bullets through his nerves.

Bright white flashes flared out around him as he fought, and then died down hisses, prickling fear through his blood. He jumped, yanking his head up, and then fell still when the spikes dug too deep.

Brought to his knees in the mud and bound by barbs and thick wire, he dropped his head to the ground, trembling tiredly as his breath rasped through exhausted lungs. Bombs continued to flash, voices continued to scream, dust continued to rain – but the horse, the horse did not move.

It was as if this mighty beast were brought down by bullets. Bullets that tightened slowly around his chest as he inhaled, that shifted and gripped him tight like a boa constrictor. The pain was beginning to numb, his legs were beginning to stiffen, but his heart, it never slowed.

Fear, terror, dread – every horrible, vile, abdominal emotion coursed through him, shivering his skin and pulsing blood down over his coat. He was scratched, bruised, and battered, cut deep and lacerated through muscle, and all because he had run, as those before him had. His kind was made to run, they were made to last, but he was not made for a fate like this. He was no plough horse, and he was no jumper. He could not see well through the mist and darkness.

He was a war horse, but he was no longer fierce. He was bound to the ground like a shackled prisoner. He could not move, he could not breathe, he could do _nothing_.

Once, he was young.

Once, he was a fighter.

Once, he was free.

But no more, for above everything else, bravery cost the most.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Thank you for reading, reviews are welcome! :)

~Shakaka


End file.
